Who Am I, Darling, To You?
by Black Hole of Procrastination
Summary: When Jon's is sent to treat with the Lords of the Vale, he finds someone unexpected on the weirwood throne.
1. Chapter 1

Outside the wind tore through camp, shuddering against the canvas walls of Jon's tent. Winter was truly upon them, and while the Vale was not nearly as buried in drifts as the North, the air cutting through the mountain passes was cruelly biting.

The cold did not bother Jon as it once might have, before the Red Woman had reborn him of fire, but he knew his men would not last much longer in these mountains. He had seen how they desperately huddled under their furs, keeping close to meager cookfires and praying for the distraction of battle.

 _One would think they'd had their fill of fighting._

The men he led were good men. Northern men. Men who had faced the horrors beyond the Wall, who had fought at his side against White Walkers, wights, Boltons, and Ironborn.

 _And to what madness do I lead them now?_

It was a fool's errand.

While the Vale had never declared for any claimant to the Iron Throne, its Lord Protector had long been in service to the Lannisters. Even should Lord Baelish willingly bend the knee there would be no trusting the man. No good could come from such an alliance.

 _And if it should come to arms?_

Jon sighed, staring at the jagged line on the map, indicating the narrow mountain path to the Eyrie.

Maester Luwin had schooled his charges well in the history of the realm. No army had ever penetrated the Bloody Gate. No hostile force had ever held the Eyrie. He was already losing men to hunger and the cold. Should they march on, their numbers would dwindle further, dashed against the rocks like a boat cut free of it's mooring.

Jon was still shaken from the aftermath of the ill-fated battle at Blazewater Bay. The Ironborn fleet was destroyed, it was true, but they were not all that was put to dragon flame.

What little control his aunt held over her 'children' had ended with one blow of that cursed dragon horn. Rhaegal fled over the water before the battle had even commenced and had not been sighted since. Meanwhile, Drogon and Viserion proved insensible to both Euron Greyjoy's bidding and Dany's commands, raging through the sky, half-mad, setting fire to all that crossed their path.

It took Dany several hours to coax them to the ground, but by then it was too late. Over 1,000 Northern spears and some 500 cavalry were lost that day, including a great many of the Dothraki who had braved crossing the Narrow Sea for their beloved khaleesi.

He would never be able to unsee that field of charred bodies in the snow, nor could he forget what they meant.

If they were to take the South, to defeat the Lannisters and reclaim the Iron Throne, they must do so without dragons at their back.

When he'd left Dany in the Neck, she'd been clear in her instructions. He was to secure the Vale's support through any means necessary. Though Jon was flattered to be entrusted with such a task, he did not look forward to what awaited him at the Bloody Gate.

Jon had never met Petyr Baelish, but he had heard enough about the man from Varys to know the former Master of Coin was to be feared as much as any foe Jon had faced.

Rumor had reached as far as the Wall of the man's dealings in the capital. Whispers of his involvement in Lord Stark's imprisonment and execution had fueled Northern tempers. Jon knew many who joined him on his march South did so in hopes of spilling Littlefinger's blood.

 _We'll freeze to death before we come within a league of Baelish._

Likely that was Baelish's plan. A few scores of ragged, half-starved Northmen were hardly a threat to the Eyrie's defenses. Baelish need only wait, and the Winter would do his killing for him.

The flap of Jon's tent lifted suddenly to reveal a sentry.

"There's a man from the Eyrie requesting an audience, Your Grace."

Jon raised a brow, surprised.

"See them in, lad."

Jon sighed, running a hand over his tired eyes. He had not expected to hear from the keep, trusting the coward Baelish to hide behind his rocky gates rather than meet him in the field. Whatever had lured the man from his keep did not bode well.

The tent flap rose once again. Ghost tensed at Jon's feet, his hackles raised and his teeth bared.

"Ser Lothor Brune," the sentry announced before ducking outside into the cold once more.

A knight of middling years stood in the tent's entrance.

"Prince Jon," the man gave a curt bow, his eyes drifting for a moment to the direwolf at Jon's side. "I have come to offer you terms of alliance from the seat of the Eyrie."

"Alliance?" Jon scowled. What was Littlefinger playing at? Of all the tricks Jon had anticipated he had not expected this mummer's farce. "Tell me, ser, what alliance can there be between the crown and the Vale when your Lord Baelish is proved a Lannister man? An enemy to my aunt and her claim?"

"Lord Baelish has been dead these past six months. It is his baseborn daughter who has taken his seat as Lord Protector. It is from her I have come."

Jon frowned.

"Why have I heard no report of this?"

Varys had mentioned something about his 'little birds' not surviving in the Mockingbird's nest, and as such, Jon has had little news from inside the Vale these past months. Still, he would have thought word of Petyr Baelish's demise would be something that even Jon's dwindling number of scouts and spies would have reported by now.

 _And what of this bastard daughter?_ Jon couldn't make sense of it. Why should the lords of the Vale follow the word of a woman who does not bear the name Arryn (nor any noble name at all, for that matter)? Something was not right about it, and it left Jon feeling uneasy.

"The lady did not wish to draw the interference of the capital. Not with winter come upon us," the knight explained gruffly. "She wishes to settle peaceably with you, Your Grace."

It was too good to be true. Surely this was a trap, a scheme of some sort. Any daughter of Baelish's, baseborn or otherwise, was to be treated with caution, that much was certain.

 _But if he could avoid battle, spare his men from more bloodshed…_

Jon looked the knight in the eye, his face stern but resolved.

"Take me to her."


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa stared at her reflection in the looking glass.

Though the larders of the Vale were better stocked than those elsewhere in Westeros, the rationing for winter had brought out a sharpness to her looks. When dressed in only her shift, her ribs showed through clear enough to be counted and the joints of her knees stuck out, knobby and pointed from under her hose. Of course that could all be disguised by her skirts and gown and cloak. The sallowness of her face however…

Sansa pinched herself high on her cheeks, trying to draw some color into them.

Her hair was nicely dressed in three interwoven braids. Though her true name was more widely known in the Vale with each passing day, her hair was still a muddy brown and would remain so for some time.

So long as Cersei Lannister lived, so too would Alayne Stone.

She gave herself another hard, appraising look.

 _Hardly a staggering beauty but improved._

It was foolish to fret this much over her appearance, but it seemed the only thing that calmed the nervous buzz that had been thrumming through her from the moment dragon banners had been scouted near the Bite.

 _Jon. Jon. Jon._

The name repeated in her head like an endless tattoo, hammering along with the rapid beat of her heart.

 _She was not the last one. Not anymore. He had come. At last._

She knew why he had come. She also knew she did not possess the power to help him. Not yet.

Her title was an empty one, passed on to appease Sweetrobin's temper. The boy lord's insistence on naming her Lady Protector of the Vale was nothing more than a childish ploy on his part to keep her by his side in the Eyrie. And while Sansa did have some hand in the running of Robert's household, it was the Lords Declarent who truly ruled over the Vale.

She would need to be careful in how she proceeds.

Harry would be easy. Sweetrobin's recovery had soured the young squire some in recent months, but the promise of battle would surely cheer him. He and every other young lordling and knight in the Vale seemed to long for nothing so much as a chance to see a battlefield, to fight. _Foolish knights of summer_. The promise of war would surely tempt them all.

The Lords of the Vale might prove more of a challenge. So many had fought to place Robert on the Iron Throne and they harbored no love for the Targaryens.

 _But mayhaps a Targaryen raised by Ned Stark would prove the exception._

Sweetrobin would take some time as well, but she was schooled enough in his moods to know how to sway him when the time came.

Sansa sighed.

Her little lord would not be joining her to welcome their guest. He had locked himself in his chambers, pouting and foul-tempered.

 _He is jealous of Jon. Jealous that she should have another cousin._

It was just as well. This was one reception she'd prefer to make on her own.

Satisfied with her appearance, she made her way hurriedly to the High Hall, giving those assembled a courteous nod before taking her seat on the weirwood throne.

The Lords Declarent would be wroth that she dared take an audience with Jon without their leave, but if Sansa were to wait on their say so, she might not welcome Jon to the Vale until well after spring had come and gone.

 _"It is better to ask forgiveness than permission, sweetling,"_ Petyr's voice echoed from inside her head.

Sansa shivered under her woolen mantle.

 _He is gone. He can do no more harm here,_ she reminded herself gently.

The trek up the mountain was treacherous in fair weather, and even more so in snows such as this. It would take Mya and her mules the better part of the day to return with their guests. Sansa knew this. Still, she fidgeted anxiously as each minute passed agonizingly slow.

When word finally came from the keep's gate that a party had been sighted, Sansa had worked herself into such a state that she could scarcely keep still and conduct herself as a lady.

At last, the doors opened and Jon was announced.

She spied him instantly, moving at the front, flanked on one side by three guards bearing dragons on their shields and on the other side by Ghost. Mya, Lothor Brune, and a half-dozen Winged Knights followed after, shaking snow from their cloaks and hair, and filling out the rest of the hall.

Sansa stared at her former brother.

 _He is a man now_ , she marveled, noting the startling breadth of his shoulders and the dark beard that covered his face.

She had expected the same lanky, quiet lad of four of ten she remembered. But that was foolish. Of course he had changed. She has too (at least enough, that he did not seen to recognize her under her layers of Alayne).

 _He looks like Father. Like a Stark._

"Leave us," she commanded, her eyes never straying from Jon.

"My lady, I must insist—" one if the Targaryen guards spoke up.

"His Grace will come to no harm in my company, sers." Sansa rose from her seat and steadily made her way towards them. "I've no blade concealed in my skirts, and the Moon Door is shut tight, I assure you," she teased. Sansa gave them a winning smile but that only seemed to make them more ill at ease. "His wolf may stay, if you wish" she conceded, looking at Ghost now. She swallowed down the urge to throw her arms around the animal and weep into his fur for his pack-mate. _For Lady._

Jon's guards hesitated, glancing at one another, uncertain. The one who had objected before looked on the verge to do so again when Jon spoke at last.

"It is fine."

All three seemed unhappy with this dismissal, but bowed to Jon on their way from the Hall, leaving with Sweetrobin's Winged Knights and Sansa's own attendants.

They were alone at last.

She noticed Jon tense as she drew closer, his gloved hand flexing at his side. Ghost shared none of his masters reserve, and loped over to Sansa's side, nudging her shoulder with the blunt top of his snout.

Sansa beamed. She reached out to run a hand gently over the fur behind Ghost ears. It was matted with mud and burrs.

 _We will have to remedy that_ , Sansa thought, pleased at the prospect of grooming the direwolf.

Jon stood frozen beside them, gaping at her boldness.

"I was right."

"About what, my lady?" Jon frowned, eying her warily.

"It is sweet to see you, Jon."

Jon paused. He studied her carefully, eyes scanning over her face, her eyes. Slowly an exhilarating mix of disbelief and recognition began to blossom across his face.

"Sansa?"

His voice was quiet, tentative, like she might vanish were he to speak above a whisper.

Sansa smiled at him tearfully.

"Jon."

With a hysterical sort of laugh he pulled Sansa into a fierce embrace. Sansa clung to him just as fiercely, gasping out sobs that she muffled against the boiled leather Jon wore under his cloak. His arms held her tightly around her middle, tight enough to hurt, but she did not care. For the first time since her lord father lost his head she felt safe.

"How is it – is it truly you?" Jon asked, pulling away to look at her face wonderingly.

Sansa hiccuped a laugh, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Welcome to the Eyrie, cousin."

Jon looked startled by the title. It was nothing compared to the stunned but pleased expression he wore when she pressed a kiss against his cheek.


End file.
